Krish Gupta “A Mother’s Worst Fear”

A MOTHER’S WORST FEAR ____________________________________________________________ by Krish Gupta, Grade 11

I stare outside the window of the car while the air conditioner pushes a gentle breeze of cool air against my face. I look outside at what seems to be a never-ending road. The ground trembles as each car passes by. As the sun rises, I sense the morning rush. The lake below the bridge is peculiar—the brownish-coloured water is covered by filthy trash. My attention focuses on a black, beaten up Pepsi can almost fully immersed in the lake.

“Mom, are we close?”

I turn to my left to see my beautiful, brave son. His bright, blue eyes sparkle with beauty, while his messy, brown hair and contagious smile express his happiness.

“Yes, please be patient, Joshua,” I say, smiling. However, that smile quickly fades away. I hate the word “patience.” Ever since he’s been diagnosed with diphtheria, all I hear is “be patient.” I am tired of waiting. I’m afraid this may be our last chance. When I wake him up in the morning, I’m afraid to look him in eyes as I fear he may see my swollen and red eyes.

“Ma’am, we’re here,” the driver announces, interrupting my thoughts.

As I exit the car, my gaze suddenly swivels towards the corner of the street where an ambulance rushes with flashing lights. Several doctors quickly scurry from the entrance and sprint toward the vehicle. Holding my son’s hand tightly, I try to ignore the scene and swiftly enter the building. An antiseptic, bitter fragrance quickly overtakes me. Although the halls are dead and plain, it is overcrowded.

After a few minutes of waiting, an older female receptionist blankly looks at me. “Name?” she asks.

“Uhh, Bernice.” As she starts typing on her keyboard, her phone starts ringing. To my surprise, she answers it.

After what seems like half an hour, I shriek, “Stop!”

She slowly puts her phone on the table and I continue to scream. “My son and I did not travel over 500 kilometres just to be met by your incompetence!”

After a second of hesitation, she asks, “What did you say your name wa—?”

“Bernice,” I sigh.

What happened? I’m not the screaming type. Exhaustion and fear are eating me away.

“Your son, Joshua, has an appointment in two hours to get treated,” she explains. “Unfortunately, his surgeon is absent for the rest of the week because of a personal issue. Would Saturday at 3:00 be fine?”

Broken-hearted, I look down at my son. I notice his tears welling up. For the first time, through all his hardships, he finally cracked. After years of non-stop trying and endless faith, my baby finally has given up. I feel like a dirty can in a lake. No matter how hard I try, I’ll inevitably drown.

*This story was inspired by a CBC article entitled “Health System Neglects Northern Patients by Design: Doctor,” 5 Mar. 2018, featuring a mother, Bernice Boyce, and her struggles.